Jeffery Epstein and Sacred Cows

The whole sordid Jeffery Epstein saga is unfolding. It’s happening in drips and bits. The custodians of America cannot and will not let it turn into a deluge. It will keep happening in bits and drips until it’s forgotten.
And no big participants will ever be arrested.

Some new false flag will be staged and the attention of Americans will be diverted.

Most probably this will be by the evil Iranians attacking poor little Israel. Evil Iran will then try to destroy the beacon of democracy in the Middle East. So sad.

All you folks may not know that, but Jeffery Epstein is a also a big philanthropist and has contributed $30M to Harvard towards brain research and understanding human thought control and furthering AI (Artificial Intelligence).

In addition he also too took Slick Willy on 26 trips to places where he could release tensions and relax. 

Chosenites have perfected the method to select the chosen and the chosen are always happy to oblige. 

I don’t think this 30M donation was for luring teenage girls, or reading their minds, or even getting more children into his circle. 

It was and always be for control. 

Shame on Harvard University. 

The juice dripping on American ground may be little, but the it’s sticky as hell.

In Stitches

In Stitches

By Nihal Mirza

I met Bebe from Florida on an internet dating site; she too loved travelling and had visited a lot more places than me, and being an America was far richer. Since I love the Himalayas more than any other place, I convinced her to accompany me on a trip to Ladakh. A few months later she flew down to Mumbai.

But when we got to Delhi, Bebe dropped a bombshell. She told me that she needed to go to Deradun where she had booked herself in for some cosmetic surgery. This was scheduled the very next morning, so we hired a taxi to Deradun, which  is just 120 miles away. The following day I spent reading Bill Bryson’s American travelogue ‘The lost Continent,’ laying next to a sedated Bebe. Any firsthand,  hands-on experience about American women, I now realized, had to be postponed indefinitely.

And a day after her surgery, Bebe told the doctor she was leaving for Delhi. The doctor wasn’t too pleased but she was adamant. Bebe now wore dark glasses to conceal the stitches and the swelling around her eyes. But now, we also had another problem; we couldn’t leave for the mountains because Bebe had to have her stitches removed in a weeks’ time.  So after doing the Red fort, Juma Masjid, etc. in Delhi, we decided to visit the Taj in Agra.

Never a spendthrift (i.e. cheap) I left her in the hotel room and got the cheapest available bus tickets. These were half the priced as they targeted poor Hindu pilgrims as captive consumers( which I didn’t know). The bus took a roundabout route, stopped at all places of significance to Hindu pilgrims and as an added bonus, stopped at shops setup as tourists traps. Salesmen would also board the bus and solicit donations for hospices for aged cows; devout overseas Hindus could donate $$ to temples, earn merit and receive blessed offerings by post. Toothpowders that could help grannies grow new sets of teeth; Kashmiri shops offered ‘silicone on sillick’ carpets, i.e ‘Silk on silk’ or 100% silk carpets. An ordinary bus to Agra takes about 4 hours from Delhi, ours took twice as long to get there.

Back in Delhi, we went to the doctor suggested by her cosmetic surgeon; he got Bebe’s stitches out. Only he didn’t get all of them.  He missed a few; quite a lot more than a few.

Bebe was in pain when she discovered this in Manali; a small town high in the Himalayas, so I bought a pair of tweezers.  As we travelled to Srinagar and then on to Leh, it became a kind of ritual looking for these missed stitches.

Next year I got married but Bebe and I are still good friends.

Tricky Mistake

 

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Trying to amuse a child can be dangerous sometimes. I learnt this while trekking in the Himalayas. This is a true incident and it happened to me in Darcha, a tiny village in the state of Himachal Pradesh, India.

On my way back from a trek, the last bus to Keylang had already left when I reached Darcha, so I decided to sleep again in the tea shop/dhaba, where I had spent a night some days ago. But the tea shop was shut, and I was told that the owner had gone away for some days. By this time a little crowd had collected around me and one of them, a young guy named Lalchand, offered to put me up at his house. For a small sum, he said, he would provide me with a bed as well as food.

His house was in the old Darcha village which consists of farm houses and fields and is connected by a rope bridge to the new settlement, lower down near the highway and the bus stop. Like all such houses, Lalchand’s house too had a stable downstairs and a strong smell of cattle pervaded throughout. The main living room above it had a clay stove in the centre with a chimney going through the roof. An old pedal sewing machine in a corner was the only sign of modernity. A little girl sat near it and stared at me without expression. I put my backpack down and sat near the window. By this time Lalchand had disappeared but his little sister continued to stare at me. It got a bit unnerving after some time – this direct unblinking stare, so I asked her name. This got me no response and I thought language was the barrier. Maybe she didn’t understand Hindi and spoke only the local Pahadi dialect.

I love kids, so if language was a barrier, maybe I could amuse her by showing her a few magic tricks. I tried a few simple ones that I know but she didn’t react and I soon gave up. It was late afternoon and I was tired and must have dozed off for a few hours, because when I awoke, it was dark outside and a woman was preparing food and making rotis on the clay stove.

Lalchand had still not returned. In the next half hour, quite a few people trickled into the room and when the food was ready, I was not invited to join in. My questions about Lalchand were ignored by them and it was as if I was not visible; but their voices kept getting louder and angrier. This kind of discourtesy was new to m, especially  in the mountains. I was also beginning to suspect that I was the subject of their discussion. Loud voices and angry looks were sometimes directed at me, but I was never addressed directly.

I sat there in growing panic, hoping for Lalchand to come and sort things out and trying to ignore these people. I was now less concerned about the meal and more worried about my physical safety. These people were drinking the local chang and getting louder by the minute. By now I was sure that all this loud talk was all about me, because these loud outbursts were punctuated with angry gestures towards me.

I began seriously considering leaping out of the window and making a run for it. But the thought of falling eight or ten feet to the ground in pitch dark and seriously injuring myself kept me rooted.

 

Suddenly the whole drama came to an abrupt end. One of the men huddled around the fire stood up and asked if I did “Jadu-Tona” or was a ‘sorcerer’. The penny dropped, and I burst out laughing. Most hill people believe in spirits, ghosts, goblins etc. The little girl had probably been frightened by my simple magic tricks and had told her parents. They in turn had brought their neighbors and friends as reinforcements to tackle the ‘evil wizard’. Things improved dramatically after I gave yet another demonstration of my feeble magic tricks.

The next morning Lalchand kept me company as I waited for the bus to Keylong. He had discovered true magic the day before – my walkman – and he couldn’t get enough of it. He kept asking me if I would consider selling it to him. When I found out that he had never ever seen a movie in a theatre in his entire life I was moved. We calculated the cost, and I was happy to help him see his first movie.

 

Adolf Villa and the Indian Homeland

The picture above is of Adolf Villa, I took this when I was 8 or 9 with a plastic reflex camera with twin plastic lenses, sometime in 1966 or ’67. The building next door (not in the picture) was named the ‘Indian Homeland’. Adolf Villa had plaster lions on both gate posts and the right gate post had a marble plaque with a Swastika, with the name’Adolf Villa’ above it. You can still see the lion on the left gate post.

I have tried to get to the bottom of the mystery of naming the two adjoining buildings  Adolf Villa and Indian Homeland without success. I think is both were built before the second world war, or just before India gained independence, by people with opposing points of view.

Adolf Villa had a timber skeleton with brick walls. A beautiful blue and cream colored spiral wooden staircase led to the first floor. Red, green, purple and yellow glass windows surrounded it on two sides. I used to stand on the curved bannister and look out at the street through these magical windows. Even today, 50 years on, I cannot look at stained glass windows without thinking about that staircase.

The spiral staircase sadly ended at the first floor with a red tiled veranda. Here Mr & Mrs Menezes often sat on a simple blue wooden bench looking out at the street. A street where nothing much happened.

Across the street was an open ground where we played field hockey, volley ball, and during the monsoons, when it was mucky and waterlogged, football or ‘soccer’ as it’s fashionably called now.

From the first floor and the Menazes on the bench, the staircase that led to my house was straight and up but it made  a U-turn, and the next four or five steps up led to a ‘Saloon gate’; the kind you see in cowboy movies. And our veranda too was as large as a room. Here at different times lived fantail pigeons, Leo and Lucy (my two Dachshunds) and for a brief period, Chunni Bunder (a monkey). Only the cats were free to enter the house.

This too was an observation post, manned by my family members in their free time.

Surveillance can be benign or malign. When done by secret government or private corporations and agencies it creeps me out. I haven’t visited my FB page for almost 2 years.